May we ask, how it is that rivers join the song of ev'n? or, in plain
prose, the evening! but, if they do, is it not true that they equally
join the song of morning, noon, and night? The _purple morning falling
in flakes_ of light is a bold figure: but we are told, it falls far and
wide--Where?--On the mountain's _side_. We are sorry to see the purple
morning confined so like a maniac in a straight waistcoat. What the
night of wing of silence is, we are unable to comprehend: but the
climax of the passage is, that, were there such a spot of holy ground as
is here so sublimely described, _unfound_ by Pain and her sad family,
Nature's God had surely given that spot to man, though its _woods_ were
_undiscovered_.

Let us proceed,

'But doubly pitying Nature loves to show'r
Soft on his _wounded heart_ her healing pow'r,
Who _plods_ o'er hills and vales his road _forlorn_,
Wooing her varying charms from eve to morn.
_No sad vacuities_ his heart _annoy_,
_Blows_ not a Zephyr but it _whispers joy_;
For him _lost_ flowers their _idle_ sweets _exhale_;
He _tastes_ the meanest _note_ that swells the gale;
For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn,
And _peeps_ the far-off _spire_, his evening bourn!
Dear is the forest _frowning_ o'er his head,
And dear the green-sward to his _velvet tread_;
Moves there a _cloud_ o'er mid-day's flaming eye?
Upwards he looks--and calls it luxury;
Kind Nature's _charities_ his steps attend,
In every babbling brook he finds a friend.'